The sun dipped low on the horizon, bathing Dusty Creek in the kind of golden light that made everything—fences, hay bales, even the worn leather of Wade McCallister’s gloves—seem to glow. He moved through the paddock with practiced ease, the rhythm of hooves and the soft huff of the mustang grounding him. The scent of hay, sun-warmed wood, and leather clung to the air, soothing in its familiarity. It was the sort of evening that made him forget the rough days, the debt, the long hours. Out here, it was just him, the land, and the animals—everything made sense.

He was just coaxing the little roan into a circle when movement at the fence line caught his eye. Wade squinted against the setting sun, his breath catching with a flicker of unease.

Someone was walking across his property—no truck, no warning, just a calm, steady stride. A stranger.

Wade straightened up, the mustang pawing at the dirt beside him. The figure approaching was lean and upright, with a kind of easy confidence that didn’t match the worn boots or cracked earth around them. Their clothes were neat—too neat. Clean denim, a lightweight jacket that hadn’t seen a real trail, and sunglasses pushed up into thick, wind-tossed hair. They looked like they’d walked out of a magazine shoot for “Rustic Chic” and had somehow wandered into the real thing.

“Hell,” Wade muttered under his breath, brushing dust off his jeans as he strode toward the intruder.

He kept his voice level, but there was steel beneath it. “Hey there,” he called out, slowing to a stop a few feet away. “This ain’t no petting zoo. You’re on private property.”